Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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Believe it or not, the moment you�ve all been waiting for has finally arrived � I�ve moved into my own apartment. Okay, maybe it�s not the moment you�ve all been waiting for, but since October 6th, 2003, when I first got off the bus in Ukrainka with two full suitcases, an overstuffed backpack, and a paucity of Russian under my belt, I�ve eagerly anticipated my independence here. This, of course, is not to say that I haven�t had absolutely invaluable experiences living first with Claudia and then Tamara and Valery. I can say, indubitably, that when I look back on my life in Ukraine, the time I spent with my host families will not only be among the most special, but certainly the most rewarding and by itself worth the price of admission.
Last Sunday, as you all know, was Easter, or �pascha�. In Ukraine, the vast majority of people are �Bratislava� (I think it�s Eastern Orthodox. To be honest, I actually have no idea how Eastern Orthodox and Greek Orthodox and Russian Orthodox and any other Ukrainian Orthodox are different). These people are strictly religious, and thus Easter is an extremely important holiday. It really begins on Saturday, when like America, they color their eggs and prepare for the Sunday feast. Tamara spent the afternoon boiling eggs with red onions which produced a hue somewhere around burnt scarlet or summer rust. She did not, however, paint them. As I�ve mentioned before, Tamara and Valery don�t do anything that�s not 100% natural � wait, that came out wrong. But it�s funny so I won�t delete it. Y�all know what I mean. Since Tamara views most dyes or colorings as artificial, she only used the onions. The other important piece of Easter tradition is a special holiday sweet bread they make called, fittingly enough, �pascha.� It bakes in tall cylinders and is topped with icing and occasionally sprinkles. They present the eggs and pascha together on a plate and eat them with their meals for the next two days or so (And no, Ukrainians don�t do Easter egg hunts, nor do they eat chocolate bunnies or marshmallow chicks. But with their love for chocolate and growing embrace of capitalism, I�m sure the Cadbury Company will be here soon enough creating wonderful new synergies and value adds sure to please the whole family�)
So Easter morning arrived, minus the bunny, bonnets, and baskets, and I was looking forward to yet another holiday adventure at Valery�s brother Aleg�s house, where more spiced meat and samegon would surely be waiting. Around 10am, which I thought a tad early, we all hopped in the Lada (the Volkswagen of Russia) and followed the course I�d come to know well when suddenly we veered off the main road, leaving all sense of civilization behind, and rumbled slowly down what can best be described as a long expanse of mud and cobblestone, kind of like a Snickers bar that�s been cut in half, minus the nougat. On either side of the wet dirt path were ramshackle flats, an odd m?lange of concrete and tin and wood that spread across the vista like old dustbowl lean-tos. From what I�d seen of Ukraine so far, this place looked much more appropriate for the make-shift shanty towns of Cambodia than the Soviet communal societies of the Eastern bloc.
We made our way about half-way down the road when Valery cut the engine and everyone got out. The first thing I noticed was a large thin flimsy rusty green steel gate that was tethered to the ground by no more than a weak hinge. Not a lot of security, but then again, it looked like a strong wind could blow the fence down and roof off anyway. Valery went over to open the gate, and I noticed Aleg standing there, having just arrived himself. We embraced each other warmly and walked through the gate, which opened into a kind of garden which formed a perimeter around the house like a dirt moat. Immediately, Valery�s mother came outside to greet us. Like the typical Ukrainian babushka, she was clothed in very modest, bland garments: a headscarf, neck scarf, shirt and sweater, simple skirt, and sandals. What came next totally threw me off guard. She came right up to me and gave me a huge hug with a broad beaming smile. We had always just shaken hands before. For a woman of 83, it was a strong hug, and it was clear this was someone who had spent her life laboring in ways I can�t even begin to comprehend. The hug felt even more striking because I never really saw her embrace either of her two blood grandsons before.
Everyone walked inside, and I was surprised that nobody took off their shoes, which is the Ukrainian tradition when entering anyone�s home. I can only guess it�s because the floor was cold due to the lack of proper heating. Unlike the standard high-rise apartments that comprise most Ukrainian towns, this flat lacked they typical layout. It was shoddily constructed, cluttered, and I imagined that there must be gossamer cobwebs everywhere. As usual, the women went inside to cook, and the men went outside to smoke. At this point, I thought we had come here just to pick up Valery�s mom and then go to Aleg�s house. Though the women were cooking, I surmised they were preparing the food to bring over. I didn�t think we were actually eating there.
Outside, there was a one-story trellis running parallel with the house on which seemingly dead vines clung and ran up and along the roof. In front and around the sides and back of the house was a dirt garden with various trees and plants spread out in different areas. At the next-door neighbor�s house, a rooster and chicken clucked along beside the fence. At another neighbor�s house, dogs ran free in the yard.
Valery and Aleg pointed out which trees were apricot and which were apple, where the carrots and potatoes grew, and where the strawberry and raspberry bushes were. They also said that those vines I thought dead would soon bear lots of grapes. They smoked and talked about the weather, and then we got into the Iraq situation briefly. Dima and Jura were hanging out by themselves somewhere. It�s strange, even after three months, I still don�t understand the family dynamic. But neither of them talk at all over dinner or any of the meals and don�t socialize with their family, a point I�ll touch on more in a little bit.
As it turned out, of course, we were having Easter lunch there after all. Before we sat down, Valery pointed out a little stone furnace, no more than two feet by two feet, in the corner by the living room. He said before they had gas put in, that furnace was used to heat the whole house. I won�t go into too much detail about the meal, since I�ve already described it in other entries, but I did have a nice talk with Valery�s mom about her life. She showed me pictures from when she was younger and of Valery and Aleg when they were students; she talked briefly about how she was proudly Russian and how her husband was Ukrainian; what life was like during and after the war; and how she managed through such diabolical circumstances. It was clear she was a survivor. She still bends down to pick up heavy jars and still works the grounds herself. I told her I hoped that one day she could meet my grandmother. I think they�d hit it off.
When lunch was over Tamara and Valery took me to a small room adjacent to the living room. It was a humble space, maybe ten feet by twelve feet, and they told me that�s where they used to live when they first got married. Not only that, but they lived in that room with both Dima and Jura until they could afford to get their own apartment. Four people in that tiny room with Valery�s mother next door. Tamara told me how Valery would get up and put on his tie in front of the dresser while Dima slept in the corner. And I thought about the tantrums I�d thrown about having my own apartment, as though I was being cheated from my birthright, like Dmitri Karamazov storming through the town demanding his three thousand rubles. And I smiled and put my hands in my pockets, hunched over a little bit, and meekly shuffled out.
We said goodbye, and Valery�s mother hugged me again with those strong Ukrainian arms and oversized hands thick with labor, and told me she lived all alone and hoped I could come by sometime even by myself to visit. Of course, without a car, it�s an impossibility, but I was truly touched. From there, we made a brief stop at a local grocery store for Valery to buy a two-liter of beer, and then it was about another five minutes out in the country to a vast rolling steppe of farmland, flat and barren, which was fenced off into individual tracts.
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